Dawn broke gray and cold over Storm's End as ten thousand men prepared to march to war. The ancient castle's courtyard had been transformed into a sea of steel and leather, banners snapping in the salt wind as companies formed their ranks with the practiced efficiency of professional soldiers. The air rang with the sound of armor being adjusted, weapons being checked one final time, and sergeants bellowing orders that would soon be drowned out by the thunder of marching feet.
Aemon sat astride Thunder in the front rank of Robert's personal guard, his enhanced senses cataloguing every detail of the organized chaos around him. The morning mist rising from the narrow sea, the nervous energy of men about to face battle, and the subtle signs of anticipation and fear that marked veterans and green boys alike. His mail hung perfectly fitted to his frame, his sword rested easily in its sheath, and his mind was already racing through contingencies and possibilities for the campaign ahead.
This is it, he thought with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. The moment that changes everything. In a few months, Robert will be king, Aerys will be dead, and the realm will be forever altered. The question is: where will I be when the dust settles?
Robert himself was magnificent in his battle gear. Clad in plate and mail that had been forged specifically for his massive frame, carrying his legendary warhammer with the casual ease that marked a master of his craft, he looked every inch the conquering hero that songs would celebrate for generations. His destrier, a massive black stallion named Courage, stamped and snorted beneath him, as eager for battle as his rider.
"Men of the Stormlands!" Robert's voice carried across the assembled army with the force of thunder. "Today, we ride north to settle accounts with the Mad King! Some of you may not return, but those who do will have helped forge a new age for the Seven Kingdoms!"
The roar that answered him was deafening, ten thousand voices raised in approval, the sound echoing off the ancient stones of Storm's End like a promise of victory. Aemon found himself swept up in the moment despite his knowledge of what was to come, the sheer force of collective will threatening to overwhelm his careful emotional control.
This is why Robert will win, he realized. Not just because he's a great warrior, but because he makes other men want to be great warriors too.
The march began with the precision of a well-oiled machine. The vanguard led by Ser Jon Connington departed first, their task to scout the roads ahead and secure river crossings. The main body followed under Robert's direct command, while the rearguard under Ser Parmen Crane protected the baggage train and ensured no enemies could approach from behind.
Aemon's position with the guard put him in the thick of the command structure, close enough to Robert to hear strategic discussions and positioned to observe every aspect of how the army functioned. It was an education in medieval warfare that no amount of reading could have provided: the constant communication between scouts and commanders, the complex logistics of moving thousands of men across hostile territory, the delicate balance between speed and security that determined whether an army arrived at its destination ready to fight or exhausted and vulnerable.
The first day's march took them through familiar territory, the lands immediately surrounding Storm's End that had sworn fealty to House Baratheon for generations. Villages turned out to cheer their lord's passage, while local nobles provided supplies and fresh intelligence about enemy movements. It was a reminder that warfare in this age was as much about politics and logistics as it was about actual fighting.
Every village, every lord, every merchant we pass is making calculations about which side is likely to win, Aemon observed as they rode through a prosperous farming community whose inhabitants watched the army's passage with carefully neutral expressions. Support us if we look strong, hedge their bets if we look weak, and switch sides entirely if we start losing.
By evening, they had covered nearly twenty miles—excellent progress for such a large force. The army made camp in a broad meadow beside a clear-running stream, with sentries posted and patrols organized according to standard military protocol. Aemon helped establish Robert's command tent at the center of the encampment, then joined his fellow guardsmen for the evening meal.
"First day went well," commented Ser Richard Horpe as they shared a meal of bread, cheese, and salted pork around a small fire. "Good roads, no enemy contact, men are still fresh. If we can maintain this pace, we'll reach the Riverlands ahead of schedule."
"Assuming the weather holds," added another guardsman, glancing at the clouds gathering on the northern horizon. "Nothing slows an army like mud and rain."
Aemon nodded thoughtfully while his enhanced cognition ran calculations based on his knowledge of the campaign's historical timeline. "How long until we link up with Lord Arryn's forces?"
"Two weeks, maybe three if we run into resistance," Ser Richard replied. "Lord Robert's been exchanging ravens with the Vale. Plan is to meet somewhere near the Trident and coordinate our advance on King's Landing."
The Battle of the Trident. Where Robert kills Prince Rhaegar and effectively wins the war. But that's still months away, and anything could change the timeline.
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a scout, his horse lathered with sweat and his expression grim with urgent news. "Ser Richard! Lord Robert needs to see you immediately. We've got enemy movement to the east."
Within minutes, the command tent was bustling with activity as Robert's senior officers gathered for an emergency briefing. Aemon took his position near the tent's entrance, close enough to hear everything while maintaining the proper deference expected of a guardsman.
The scout's report was concise and alarming. "Loyalist cavalry, my lord. Perhaps five hundred horses, moving south along the Kingsroad. They'll reach the crossroads ahead of us if we maintain our current pace."
Robert studied the map spread across his campaign table, his expression thoughtful rather than concerned. "Whose banners?"
"House Fell, my lord, with some Cafferen men. Ser Harbert's leading them personally."
Lord Fell of Felwood. A minor house, but their lands control key passes through the Red Mountains. If they're moving to intercept us, it means Aerys is trying to prevent the rebellion from reaching the Riverlands.
"Five hundred men," Robert mused aloud. "Not enough to stop us, but enough to slow us down if they hold good ground." He looked up at his assembled commanders. "Options?"
Ser Jon Connington was the first to respond. "Hit them hard and fast with the vanguard. Don't give them time to prepare defensive positions."
"Risky," countered Ser Parmen. "If they've chosen their ground well, we could lose more men than we can afford this early in the campaign."
"What about going around them?" suggested another knight. "Add a day to our march, but avoid unnecessary casualties."
Robert's grin was sharp as a blade. "Or we could do something they won't expect." He turned to the scout. "How far are they from the crossroads?"
"Half a day's hard riding, my lord. But they'll be there by tomorrow evening if they maintain pace."
"Then we beat them there." Robert's decision was immediate and decisive. "We march through the night. Hit the crossroads at dawn, dig in, and let them come to us. Ser Jon, take two hundred of our best cavalry and swing wide to the east. When they engage our main force, hit them in the flank."
Classic hammer and anvil tactics. Simple, effective, and playing to Robert's strengths as both a tactical commander and inspirational leader.
The next few hours were a blur of organized activity as the army broke camp and resumed the march under cover of darkness. It was a risk; night marches were notorious for causing stragglers and accidents, but Robert's men were experienced enough to handle the challenge.
Aemon found himself riding beside Robert's banner as they pushed through the darkness, his enhanced night vision giving him a significant advantage over his companions. The Númenórean blood sang in his veins, ancient memories of night raids and surprise attacks mixing with his modern understanding of military tactics to create an almost supernatural awareness of the battlefield developing around them.
This is what I was made for, he realized with something approaching reverence. Not just the fighting, but the thinking. The ability to see patterns and possibilities that others miss.
They reached the crossroads just as the eastern sky began to lighten, the army deploying with practiced efficiency to defensive positions that commanded the intersection of two major roads. Robert had chosen the ground well, a slight rise that gave clear sight lines in all directions, with good cover for archers and multiple escape routes if the battle went badly.
"Positions!" Ser Richard commanded as the guard formed up around Robert's battle standard. "Rivers, you're with the reserve. Stay close to Lord Robert and be ready for anything."
The enemy appeared with the rising sun, their banners bright against the morning sky as they approached the crossroads at a steady trot. Lord Harbert Fell was a competent commander. Aemon could see that immediately from the disciplined formation his men maintained and the cautious way they approached the obviously prepared defensive position.
He knows he's walking into a trap, but he doesn't have a choice. Orders from King's Landing probably demand he try to stop us, regardless of the tactical situation.
The two armies faced each other across perhaps three hundred yards of open ground, the morning air thick with tension and the promise of violence. Robert rode forward to the edge of his lines, his massive warhammer resting across his saddle pommel as he addressed the enemy commander.
"Lord Harbert!" his voice carried easily across the distance. "I have no quarrel with you or your men! Stand aside, and no blood need be shed this day!"
The response was immediate and predictable. "Robert Baratheon! By order of His Grace King Aerys, I demand you surrender yourself for judgment! Lay down your arms, and your men will be spared!"
Robert's laugh was rich with genuine amusement. "The Mad King's mercy? I think not!" He raised his warhammer above his head, the steel head gleaming in the morning light. "What say you, lads? Shall we show these loyalist dogs what justice looks like?"
The roar that answered him was deafening. Ten thousand voices raised in defiance, a sound of such primal aggression that it made the very air tremble. Several of the enemy horses shied at the noise, their riders struggling to maintain control.
Psychological warfare at its finest. Robert just shattered their morale before the first blow was struck.
Lord Harbert's response was to order the charge, five hundred heavy cavalry thundering across the open ground with lances leveled and war cries echoing off the surrounding hills. It was a magnificent sight, the kind of heroic cavalry assault that filled the songs and stories told around tavern fires.
It was also exactly what Robert had been hoping for.
The loyalist charge struck Robert's center like a hammer blow, but the defensive positions held. Spears and pikes thrust forward to meet the cavalry assault, while archers on the flanks sent volleys of arrows into the enemy formation. Men died in those first few seconds of contact, pierced by steel points, trampled under iron-shod hooves, or simply overwhelmed by the sheer violence of medieval combat.
But Robert had positioned his forces perfectly. Just as Lord Harbert's men began to break through the center, Ser Jon Connington's flanking force struck them from the side like a thunderbolt. Caught between hammer and anvil, the loyalist cavalry found themselves surrounded and fighting for their lives.
"Now!" Robert's bellow carried over the din of battle. "Forward, Storm's End!"
The countercharge was devastating. Led by Robert himself, his warhammer rising and falling like the judgment of gods, the rebel forces swept down from their defensive positions to finish what the flanking attack had started. Aemon found himself carried forward in the rush, Thunder responding to his guidance as they plunged into the chaos of medieval warfare.
This is it. My first real battle.
His enhanced reflexes served him well in the melee that followed. A loyalist knight tried to take his head with a mace, only to find his attack deflected by Aemon's sword and answered by a thrust that found the gap between helmet and gorget. Blood sprayed across Thunder's neck as the man fell, but there was no time to think about what he'd just done, another enemy was already pressing forward, and survival demanded immediate action.
The Númenórean blood was singing now, ancient battle-fury mixing with enhanced cognition to create a state of almost supernatural combat awareness. He could see attacks developing before they were fully committed, read the flow of the battle like a vast, lethal puzzle, and respond with precision that seemed impossible even to himself.
A spear thrust aimed at Thunder's flank was deflected with a casual parry. A sword cut targeting his leg was avoided by a shift in the saddle that barely disturbed his balance. In return, his own blade found enemy flesh with mechanical precision, never wasted motion, never excessive force, just the minimum effort required to remove threats and continue the advance.
I'm not just fighting. I'm orchestrating. Every move is calculated for maximum effect with minimum risk.
The battle lasted less than an hour. Caught between two forces and demoralized by the ferocity of Robert's assault, the loyalist cavalry broke and fled, leaving nearly half their number dead or dying on the bloody ground around the crossroads. It was a complete victory, the kind of tactical success that would be studied and celebrated for generations.
But for Aemon, the real revelation wasn't the victory itself, it was the realization of what he had become. The combination of ancient bloodline, enhanced cognition, and modern tactical knowledge had created something unprecedented: a medieval warrior with capabilities that bordered on the supernatural.
This is just the beginning, he thought as he watched Robert rally his victorious forces for the continuation of the march. If I can do this much in my first battle, what will I be capable of when I've had years to develop these abilities?
The answer to that question would reshape the Seven Kingdoms, though none of the cheering soldiers around him could possibly imagine it. The Númenórean had been tested in battle and found worthy.
Now came the real war.